He thought he’d see her hands as the glowing cluster of fireflies descended, but he didn’t. It was as if the insects—or their golden light—consumed her. They flew more frantically when they obscured the view of her feet, then they suddenly spiraled upward, creating a blinking trail of light in the darkness.
Rania’s mother was gone.
Hadrian turned in place as the line of fireflies trailed into the distance. They weren’t bright enough to illuminate anything, but he was disappointed when their lights winked out, one at a time.
He was surrounded by darkness again and this time, it felt cold.
His situation was frustrating. It was unfair that he could have made the difference in the battle against Maeve, but that he hadn’t known it until it was too late to actually do anything. He hated not having influenced the outcome. He hated the possibility that his fellow Pyr would be eliminated because he’d failed them. The talons he’d made were destroyed. His firestorm wasn’t satisfied. Rania’s quest was incomplete and her brothers were still cursed. She would probably be in thrall to Maeve forever.
It was way too soon for him to die.
Hadrian started to walk, because that had to be better than just sitting and feeling sorry for himself. Regret weighed him down, but he kept walking. He couldn’t help but think of all the things he could have done differently and how he’d seize opportunity, if he could just have another chance.
He thought he was imagining the faint glow of white light when it appeared in the distance. He considered that it might be a lure or a trap, that Maeve might not have exhausted her store of tricks. But he walked toward it anyway, unable to deny the spark of hope that the sight gave him.
Then he felt the coldness in his cheek again, the chill that had haunted him since Rania had given him the kiss of death. The place where she had first touched her lips to his cheek burned a little, exactly the way frozen fingertips do when first exposed to warmth again. It stung as it hadn’t in a long while, sensation returning to the spot with a vengeance. And he could feel his cheek. Something was changing! The light brightened ahead of him even as the pain in his cheek sharpened.
Hadrian felt heat slide through his veins and desire coil deep inside himself. In that moment, he knew that he was seeing the light of his firestorm and that Rania was trying to save him.
The least he could do was meet her halfway.
He started to run toward the light.
He ignored the pain in his cheek as it throbbed with insistence. Even if she was just reviving him to assassinate him again, Hadrian didn’t care.
This was the chance he wanted and needed.
He would make it count.
Rania manifested on her knees beside Hadrian. He was in his bedroom on the bed, and she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The blinds were closed and the room was in shadows. He was cold to the touch and so still that her heart clenched. His death was her fault—and for no point at all. The firestorm didn’t spark between them, even when she reached out to touch him, and she feared she’d been in Fae too long.
What if she was too late?
Balthasar was sitting on the other side of the bed. At her appearance, he jumped in shock. “I hate when you do that.”
“You’ll like it better this time,” she said, tracing the shadow of the kiss of death with her fingertip. Could she reverse it?
The younger Pyr eyed her. “Tell me about that kiss of death. Is that what got him?”
“No.” Rania shook her head. “At least I don’t think so. Giving the kiss is a condemnation. The recipient will always die and it never takes long.”
Balthasar frowned and gestured to his fallen friend.
“It should have worked ages ago, if it was going to work at all.”
Interest brightened the other Pyr’s gaze. “But it didn’t. Why not?”
“I thought maybe because the selkie healed him, but maybe it was his own nature as an ice dragon.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rania was becoming excited: the more she thought about her idea, the more sense it made. It would help to talk it through with Balthasar. “When I grant the kiss of death, I have to prepare first. I have to gather up all the ill will that I can find. I have to distill it and focus it, until there’s enough. Then I pour all that evil into the kiss. It’s not just any kiss. I can only give it when I’ve done the preparations.”
“You inject the victim with malice, essentially.” Balthasar had his arms folded across his chest, his disapproval clear.
Rania nodded. “The kiss of death is like a ticking clock, counting down to oblivion. It’s only a matter of time before it finds a place to fester and multiply. It might take advantage of an existing injury or weakness. It might have to wait for one. But the kiss of death amplifies any injury, even a seemingly innocuous one, and makes it fatal.” She met his gaze. “I told Hadrian it could make someone die of a paper cut, because that’s the truth.”
“Nasty,” Balthasar said.
“Effective,” Rania corrected, then pointed at Hadrian. “But it didn’t work. That’s the first time ever.”
“So? He’s dead now all the same.”
“I wonder.”
“How many times have you done this, anyway?”
“This was the thirteenth time. Maeve gave me the ability to bestow the kiss of death thirteen times.”
“So, you’re done.”
Rania nodded. “But I wonder whether it’s done.” Balthasar shook his head, obviously not understanding, but she leaned toward Hadrian. She gathered her thoughts and made space within herself for the malice she’d poured into Hadrian.
“What are you doing?” Balthasar demanded.
“I’m going to try to take it back.” She touched her lips to Hadrian’s cheek, fitting her kiss exactly to the mark she’d left there weeks before. Instead of exuding malice into him, she drew it back into herself. She sucked it into herself, pulling it from every sinew of his body, willing it to abandon him as a victim.
She felt Balthasar watching, his eyes wide. His gaze danced over her and she wondered how much of the transaction he could see.
What should she do with the toxin once she had it? Should she give the kiss to Alasdair, fulfilling his promise? She’d been so intent on saving Hadrian that she hadn’t thought of the subsequent details. And she didn’t particularly want to kill Alasdair, either.
The important thing was to save Hadrian.
For long precious moments, Rania thought her efforts might be futile—but then, the firestorm lit again. Her heart leaped at the white glow of light and the little flurry of sparks between her lips and Hadrian’s cheek. She heard Balthasar’s hoot of triumph, but continued to concentrate on her task. Frost formed around her mouth and she felt a chill move into her mouth, but she kept drawing the power of the kiss of death from him. There were icicles on her tongue and her mouth was numb, but Rania kept gathering that malice.
The firestorm burned brighter with every passing moment. She stole a peek to find color returning to Hadrian’s skin and continued to draw the toxin from him. She found herself running her hand over Hadrian’s chest, caressing him as she undid the damage, and his heart pounded beneath her fingertips. She kept drawing out more, feeling his skin warm, her sense of victory growing when his hand closed over hers in a reassuring grip.